


The Fall of Winterhold

by TheWoodenplank



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-17 17:49:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28978419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWoodenplank/pseuds/TheWoodenplank
Summary: Set in the days of the Great Collapse of Winterhold, the story follows a handful of citizens as they navigate the crisis.





	The Fall of Winterhold

# Volume One

13th of Frostfall, 4E122  
Winterhold  
The sky was overcast. That didn't necessarily say much, for the sky over Winterhold was often overcast, and overcast could mean a lot of things. A wispy white cover of clouds could be overcast; a grey carpet of wool-like clouds could be overcast, a rainy day could be overcast. But today was different, everyone agreed. Heavy clouds dark as charcoal spread out from horizon to horizon, and though it was the middle of the day, only the most adamant rays of sunlight penetrated the thick cover. Every citizen who crossed eachother in the street for gossip, or huddled inside the taverns and inns agreed fervently that today was particularly cold and dark, and they all stole anxious glances further out to sea, out to the vast, dark expanse of the Sea of Ghosts where leaden clouds billowed forth threateningly, the sound of distant thunder rumbling through the bulbous dark masses.  
Belas Othren stood leaning on the College battlements looking at the oncoming storm. He knew they were loaded with nothing but rain and thunder, but nevertheless they reminded him of the Ash Clouds of home. He had been only a small child when the Red Mountain had erupted and red storms had rolled in over Morrowind, burying the land in ash. His family had fled to Skyrim then by way of Solstheim and had finally settled in Winterhold, where the strength of the College had shielded them from prejudice and hostility. He looked down upon the smooth bulwark that rested beneath his hands, and for a moment of silliness he almost wanted to caress the stonework, but instead shook his head with a smile. The College had been good to him though.  
"You should come inside Master, you'll catch a cold."  
Belas turned around to find Vandus Philida, one of his apprentices, standing behind him. The boy was not the most talented of his class, nor the most handsome, but his kindly manners and genunine affection for teachers and classmates made him everyone's favourite, and even Belas, who prided himself on harsh fairness, couldn't help but dote on him. He took one last look towards the ominous clouds, and followed the boy inside. 

14th of Frostfall, 4E122  
Winterhold  
Svanrig looked wistfully out to sea as the fishing boats congregated towards the harbor. The storm, which had lasted all day and the day before showed no sign of relenting and jarl Valdimar had invoked a landlock; forbidden any boats setting out to sea until the dangerous weather had passed.  
Svanrig sighed deeply. His father, Skjorvar, had promised to take him sailing today, and he had been looking forward to it so. Svanrig was not a good sailor; in truth he was a very bad one. He had trouble steering in rough seas and often lost his grip on the helm; the knots he tied were either too loose or too complicated to ever unwind again; and he had trouble keeping his balance on the boat and had fallen in more times than he could count, much to his father's chagrin.  
But he had insisted his father teach him. Skjorvar Snoweye was local legend in Winterhold. He'd made his fortune as a fisherman, and by now owned more than half of the vessels that were streaming into the harbor. He was a great sailor, the salt water was in his blood everyone said, and Svanrig had lived most of his life feeling the need to apologize to the world for not being as great a sailor as his father. And so, in spite his father's wishes to make a merchant of him, in spite of his numerous failiures, he had insisted on learning. But today, he would learn nothing, as the ships returned to the harbour.

14th of Frostfall, 4E122  
Sea of Ghosts, north of Dawnstar  
The roar of the waves absorbed the sound of retching admirably. The two bretons were both leaned over railing of the ship, looking frightfully close to tipping over as they vomited violently into the unruly seas. Rolf, first mate of the Whitecrest, looked at the couple with pity. Gerard Hurier and his wife Sabine were not of 'sea-going stock', as it were. They had already been looking queasy the moment they stepped onto the boat in the Solitude Harbor, but now after two days at sea being violently rocked by a storm, they were almost permanently bowed over the side of the ship.  
Rolf would have advised them to stay on land, but the ships captain and owner, Anders Cruel-Sea had insisted they needed the fare. Regardless, Hurier himself would never have taken no for an answer. He had important business with the College in Winterhold, he said, and with the roads whacked by winter storms and the mountain passes burried by blizzards, going by ship was the only way.  
Whatever time the Huriers did not spend bowed over the railing, they spent with their infant child. A tiny, yet unnamned boy who was tucked away safely in the captain's cabin which had been graciously bestowed upon the couple (whose generous fare demanded more than a meager sailor's cabin) by captain Cruel-Sea.  
Some of the other sailors had grumpled that having an unnamed babe aboard was bad luck, but Captain Cruel-Sea was not given to superstition and had silenced the complaints - that is, silenced them to the point where they were no longer repeated within his earshot.  
The journey to Winterhold was only supposed to be a matter of a few days. Ordinarily, with smooth seas and strong winds, the trip could be made in just short of a week. But this week was anything but ordinary and on the third day of their journey a man had woken Rolf in the middle of the night and told him the captain wanted him on deck. He had rosen groggily and made his way to the deck. The Sea of Ghosts, unshelted from the winds of Atmora was deadly cold and in spite of his thick furs Rolf shivered as he joined the captain by the steering wheel. Captain Cruel-Sea stood looking southwards from the stern, staring into the dark night with his jaw clenched. 

"Sir?" Rolf probed.  
Captain Cruel-Sea did not turn as he answered: "This cursed storm. Only a madman would try to sail through it. It's still only a'brewing. It will get worse."  
Rolf agreed. He had seen his share of bad weather during his many years of sailing, but he had been having the same inkling; this one would be very bad. He did not say anything, however, waiting for the captain to continue.  
I wanted to make port in Dawnstar. Wait out the storm. Maybe even bring on some new cargo or passengers. We could even make a profit off it."  
"Then why don't we, captain?" Rolf asked.  
The captain pointed out across the sea, into the wall of darkness that met them. "That's Dawnstar there. Or maybe it is. Gods know."  
It was a moment before Rolf understood; "There's no light. The lighthouse is dark."  
"The lighthouse is dark," the captain repeated bitterly. "The bloody bastards let the lighthouse go dark. I won't risk trying to make port now. Not in this darkness, not in this storm. Those bastards..." he grunted through his gritted teeth. "Damn it," he swore. "Damn them all to Oblivion and damn their damned lighthouse, I hope it crashes down on their damned heads."  
Rolf remained silent, he knew better than to say anything when the captain was in a mood such as this.  
The captain bit his lip angrily, so much so that he looked about to draw blood. "We won't try to make port. I won't risk it."  
"You wanted my advice?" Rolf asked.  
"Yes, but I'm afraid I've already made up my mind" the captain replied. Rolf knew that he had. He needn't say anything.  
"We continue, we sail for Winterhold," the captain said as he looked out into the darkness. 

Unbeknownst to the captain, his wish had partly come true already. The lighthouse of Dawnstar had stood for centuries; a beacon of safety in a sea that knew storms like no other, a proud symbol of the city's history and significance. But for centuries it had stood in the spray of the ocean, in the rage of the wind, and the pounding of the waves. And for centuries, it seemed, the sea had been gathering its strength, awaiting the day it would take its revenge for all those souls it might have claimed if not for this light. And in that storm of storms, the storm that would be remembered for millenia to come, the sea had finally won and the ancient, battered lighthouse of Dawnstar had crashed down on the heads of the two men who had been dutifully keeping it lit through the dark.

# Volume Two 

18th of Frostfall, 4E122  
Winterhold, Jarl's Greathall  
To Svanrig, the only thing really noticeable besides the stench of sweat was the stench of smoke. It was always prominent in the jarl's longhouse but tonight it was particularly bad. The jarl had hosted an Alting for the fishermen of Winterhold and, not wanting to insult his guests with a feeble hearth, a great fire was roaring fiercely in the centre of the long room. Regrettably the mass of assembled bodies had been more than enough to heat the low-ceilinged room and now a distinct note of sweat mixed with the charred smoke. No one else seemed to mind, however, focused as they were on the topic of the night's Alting. Svanrig's father, Sjorvar, was one of the first to speak up.  
"How do you intend to compensate the fishermen? Winter is upon us and they need their wages and their catch now more than ever."  
Jarl Valdimar had pulled his chair aside for the evening, standing in the midst of the assembled fishermen and interested citizens alongside his handsome son Eimar. Svanrig thought that was clever of him; the jarl's throne was a symbol of power, but one mustn't look complacent or relaxed in times such as these.  
The jarl turned towards Skjorvar: "All the fish on Nirn won't do them any good if they drown in a storm. I've commanded the people to stay ashore for their own good."  
There was a murmur through the hall much like growling.  
"That doesn't answer my question," Skjorvar said.  
This received a small inkling of applause and a chorous of angry murmurs. The jarl remained steadfast, however, which Svanrig thought was admirable.  
"All these things will be dealt with in time," he answered. "The most important thing now is to secure the city against this storm, and make sure no lives are lost. Lives first, then money."  
A great bear of a Nord, a fisherman named Urik, stood up: "And what are we supposed to live off while we wait for the storm? Drink rain and eat snow?"  
His outburst was met with a murmur of assent. Though no one else stood up, he was encouraged to continue "We've been sailors for hundreds of years, I say we take the risk. You can't risk the whole city because some sailors can't manage a little storm!"  
"And how many lives would you sacrifice for your livelihood? Your own son, perhaps? Would you be willing to give up the life of Alvor, your son for the sake of our fishing?" the jarl rebutted coldly.  
Urik fell silent, but the scowl on his face remained.  
The jarl raised his voice.  
"Lady Kyne has blessed us this year and our stores are yet full of summer's bounty. We shall wait out this storm. Winterhold has endured worse and you all shall return, safe and sound to a bountiful sea once this blows over."  
A silence fell over the hall. Perhaps because people agreed, or perhaps because they felt the jarl was ignoring their complaints. It was a while before anyone else spoke up, and then it was an elderly man, a fisherman of deeply wrinkled skin, heavily tanned by many days upon the sunlit sea. The man clutched a simple fur hat nervously while he spoke: "How bad do you think the storm is going to be, my jarl?" he asked.  
The jarl was so taken aback by the humble question that he did not answer for a moment. Finally though, he figured out how he might answer to his own benefit: "I believe it'll be the worst we ever see." 

18th of Frostfall, 4E122  
Winterhold  
The Snoweye Manor lay in the heart of Winterhold, only a few doors down from the jarl's longhouse. Skjorvar often joked that he had only to move left a few more times before he would be moving into the jarl's house, a joke which elicited only a faint, nervous sort of laughter from jarl Valdimar.  
"Did he come to his senses," Eydis Snoweye asked of her husband as soon as he and Svanrig came home. She had been waiting by the door.  
"Not one bit," Skjorvar answered brusquely. "In fact it's worse; he's extended the landlock. He even threatened to post guards at the docks to forcibly withhold our fishermen from setting sail."  
Eydis was already shaking her head, which spurred her husband on further. He was still standing in the open door, with Svanrig behind him outside. "That milk drinker would have the audacity to fine our workers for trying to do their job just because he hasn't the stones for facing stormy weather."  
"A pox on his house," his wife replied acidly. "A jarl of Winterhold who's afraid of storms? It's a disgrace. It is a good thing he only has one heir, maybe something will happen to him. Another generation with his cowardice could ruin the city."  
Svanrig thought this was unduly harsh, but he did not object. Nor did he sound his agreement though, which had to count for something he reasoned.  
"It's disgraceful," his father seconded. "But we shall outlast this."  
"It's an ancient city, I'm sure it has seen much worse," Svanrig chipped in.  
"I meant us," his father answered. "You see the wisdom of setting coin aside, spreading out your investments. Those poor fools at the Alting, they'll be ruined by this storm. Their whole livelihoods resting in a single boat."  
Again Svanrig said nothing. 

18th of Frostfall, 4E122  
Winterhold, Docks  
Thorbjorn was afraid. He had been disheartened since the storm had first stalked up upon the horizon five days before, but tonight he had begun to feel afraid. The jarl had answered his question with such an ominous response; "the worst we'll ever see." And while he was already afraid, that answer had only seemed to confirm what he already felt.  
The seas about Winterhold were still rich, rich enough that any man who had half a brain and half a set of arms and legs could pull in a decent haul, and his wife was a prudent manager, always keeping a quarter of his catch to salt and preserve. And on the rare occasions when a catch was poor, or Thorbjorn had stayed ashore during a storm, she had sold the salted fish and bought goat's milk and made Ghostflesh - the soft, seaweed-infused cheese particular to Winterhold which kept for months. That is, it went bad rather quickly, but it was the kind of bad you could still eat. And so Thorbjorn and his wife had managed life in Winterhold through the decades.  
But this time was different, Thorbjorn said to himself as he trudged through the closeknit network of hovels on the dockside, heading for the one he called home. He had no particular reason to say this; he had known many storms before, more than he could count on his fingers thrice over. And though he had never known a jarl to force the fishermen ashore, such measures were not unheard of.  
But nonetheless he told himself over and over that this time was different. When he got home he would tell his wife that this storm was different, and she would shake her head and tell him it would pass like any storm would pass, and she would throw another log on the kitchen fire and tell him to put up his feet and warm them and to stop worrying so much. And he would normally agree. He was not a fearful man by nature, but any sailor that did not respect the sea would not live long, was his motto (it was not as concise or memorable as a motto should be, but it rang true enough to him), and he had stayed on land many a time for fear of a storm.  
But this storm was different. And that difference gnawed at his bones like a winter chill and every instinct in his body told him only a single thing; they had to get out of Winterhold. 

# Volume Three

19th of Frostfall, 4E122  
Winterhold  
There were not many of them, but there were enough to attract a crowd of onlookers.  
A small score of people were shuffling along towards the gates of Winterhold. On their backs were heavy packs of food and their most prized belongings. Some dragged handcarts behind them, piled high with furniture and food, or occasionally serving as a seat for children. And shuffling they were, quiet and with low-hung heads as a drizzle of rain slowly began. A great crowd, much greater than the number of people leaving, had assembled to look at the departure. Some of the more excited onlookers called them milk drinkers and dirtbloodsd, others shook their heads, and others simply looked on in gloomy silence.  
Thorbjorn and his wife Ingrid were leaving with the others. They could not afford a horse, and so they each pulled along on one handle of a small wagon on which they had piled their few possessions; the haystuffed mattress of their bed, a worn rocking chair and a few barrels worth of food; mostly salted fish or cheeses paradoxically protected from decay by their rind of mold. The wagon itself had been a last minute purchase, one that had required Thorbjorn to sell the boat. It had been difficult to make a sale of it, for indeed it was little more than a rowboat and Winterhold was one of the richest cities in Skyrim, everything was always getting bigger and more plentiful, and few men were interested in a small, weatherworn sailboat. But once Thorbjorn put on an act, playing the part of a desperate fool frightened by the storm (which was only partly true by his own reckoning) he had managed to make a sale - indeed, it was possible to sell almost anything if you made the buyer think they were outwitting you.  
Nevertheless it had been a disappointing sale, and once they had purchased the wagon and extra food for what would be a long journey, there was nothing left.  
It had been hard to convince his wife to leave. At first she had taken him no more seriously than usually, shushing his worries and telling him it would pass, like all storms always did, and he should only sit tight for a few days and the jarl would of course make sure than no one was forced into the poorhouse during the landlock. When he had insisted that it was not so simple as to stay ashore, but they had to leave Winterhold, things had turned more serious. They had argued, at length and heatedly, and both were shaken by it for they rarely raised their voices against eachother. But finally it had dawned on Ingrid how very afraid her husband was, how the idea of staying in Winterhold nearly scared him out of his wits, and in that moment she had shivered; for just then she shared her husbands fear of the storm and she sensed too that this storm would be unlike any other.  
And she had agreed to leave the city with him.  
They had family elsewhere thankfully; their only son who had been recruited to a fishing vessel out of Windhelm and still lived there judging by his regular letters, Ingrid's parents were still alive living out a meagre retirement in Riften, and Thorbjorn had a cousin who tended the lighthouse in Dawnstar. They would certainly find friendly faces in any of these cities, and while none of their relations were particularly wealthy, they counted faithfully on being accepted in their homes. One way or another they would make it, they assured oneanother as they drifted out of Winterhold with a small score of likeminded people.  
The rain was picking up in strength as they drifted through the gates of Winterhold and began their long journey across the frozen roads.  
Skjorvar Snoweye and his son Svanrig watched the dreary procession from the balcony of their house which commanded an impressive view of the main street. Skjorvar had not degraded himself to shouting obsceneties at the refugees like some of the less sober members of the crowd below, but he was shaking his head.  
"They'll throw their whole lives away for fear of a storm. This will be over in a matter of days, and their lives will still be in shambles. What fools they are."  
Svanrig nodded his consent meagerly, but somehow could not shake the feeling that they were the wiser ones. The rain came strongly down. Rolling in on dark clouds from the sea. A torrent of water was descending on Winterhold. 

20th of Frostfall, 4E122  
Winterhold, College  
The Scryer spun wildly on the table. Spinning about in such a flurry of movement that the outlines of the brass instrument became blurry and lost their shape in speed. Belas Othren shook his head as he stared at it in bewilderment. A Vandus and another of the apprentices were looking at him from the other end of the Arcaneum, and though neither one understood how the instrument worked they would work out from the expression of the Master Wizard that the result was undesirable.  
Belas turned the instrument off by pulling out the soul gem which powered it and the contraption slowly ground to a halt, spinning slower and slower until it stood completely still again. The instrument was a marvel, truly, but today it seemed to be failing utterably. Extracted from a curious dwarven ruin beneath the city of Mournhold, and brought to Winterhold years earlier - by virtue of archmage Aren's savy negotiations and a great deal of confusion in the wake of the Argonian invasion. The instrument, whose workings were much beyond even the cleverest of the College Wizards, responded to magicka. More precisely, its many gears and gizmos arranged themselves to align with the strongest expression of magicka in the vicinity - an enchanted item gave a small displacement; an out of control summong ritual gave a large one. But now, perplexingly, the the Scryer had been spinning wildly as though trying to point in every direction at once. Belas put his head in his hands, rubbing his eyes.  
Vandus, who had been steadily watching from nearby, mustered his courage and approached his teacher. "What's wrong, sir?" he asked innocently.  
Belas looked up with a start, and Vandus was just about to apologize for surprising him, before he answered: "I can't make sense of the reading."  
"Well what what's wrong with with?"  
"Everything. I was investigating whether the Scrying would yield different results for enchantments using souls of similar size but with varying power distributions."  
Vandus couldn't make much sense of that statement, but he hid his confusion well.  
"I placed the echanted items in either end of the Arcaneum and the Scryer should point to either one or, if my suspicions are correct, at exactly the midway angle between the two. But now it does this," he said with a flail of his hands, a expression universally recognised as confused defeatism. He reinserted the soul gem and immediately the instrument began to spin wildly.  
"It is supposed to point in the direction of strongly enchanted items?" Vandus asked.  
"That's exactly what it should. Or in the direction of a particularly potent spell being cast, but I all the other professors gave me their express vow not to perform any powerful magicks today, when I would perform the experiment."  
"Could it be the storm? It's already destroyed several of the piers down the docks I hear. Maybe there's some kind of weather disturbance?"  
Belas turned towards his apprentice with a mildly berating answer in mind but just as he did so his eyes widened with the light of a sudden idea, and he turned back towards the spinning instrument with renewed interest.  
"The storm," Belas muttered, mostly to himself. "It's magical."  
"How so, Master?" Vandus asked somewhat frightened.  
The Master Wizard ignored as he continued talking to himself: "It's magical, damnit. And we're right in the epicentre."  
Apparently Vandus was expected to reply to this, for the Master Wizard turned to him with an enthusiasm that seemed almost outraged: "Don't you understand what this means? Something here, right here at the College is causing this storm!"  
Vandus didn't share the enthusiam. Instead he seemed fearful: "Someone here is causing the storm?"  
"No, no" Belas shushed him. "Not even Archmage Aren could manipulate the weather like this. But something is. And I suspect it's not exactly in the Colleg; it's below us.  
Vandus looked at the instrument, his confusion growing. "How so, master? The Hall is on the bottom floor."  
Belas would have shaken his head, but he could not help but find his apprentice's innocent ignorance endearing. "There are many tunnels beneath the College. We don't show them to the apprentices, because they have a history of being used for illicit experiments, but that must be where the disturbance is coming from."  
Vandus' confusion was beginning to show hints of fear, but Belas steadied him: "This is rather exciting you know. Whatever is down there, it's powerful. We must have a look, we'll go down into the cames tomorrow and search for it. Best find an excuse for your classes, it might well take all day."  
Vandus only nodded, not entirely sure how he had been signed up for such an expedition. v 

20th of Frostfall, 4E122  
Sea of Ghosts, northeast of Winterhold  
"Get those fucking sails stowed!" captain Cruel-Sea roared above the clangour of the storm. Rolf staggered onto the deck, slick with saltwater, and made his way towards the mast. The ocean, jet black in the dark night, heaved wave after wave of water onto the deck, spilling violently across the crew as they fought desperately to keep the ship afloat. From the corner of his eye Rolf spotted a figure at the railing. Gerard Hurier was leaned over the railing of the ship, retching into the sea. Rolf raised his voice to call out to him, but just then another wave struck the ship and Gerard lost his balance, went over the side of the ship and disappeared into the sea. Rolf did not even take the time to shout, and only hurried across the deck to the mast.  
Another sailor, Jorgen was clammering to one of the masts as the water rushed across the boat, holding onto it with such ferocity that his knucles were white with excertion. Rolf grabbed him by the shoulder and shouted against the howling winds; "We have to lose the sails!"  
For a moment he was afraid that fear had blinded the sailor, but Jorgen managed to nod. Rolf handed him one of the two knives he had brought; "Just cut it loose. We won't have time for anything else!" Again Jorgen nodded, and the both began to climb up each their mast. The boat heaved sickeningly, thrown about at random by the callous waves. They climbed up the mast, knives held between their teeth and cutting the thick robes that held the sails as they climbed.  
The ship lurched. Carried atop a wave, a wave unlike any sailor had ever seen before, it tilted forwards, leaning always vertically against the waters and Rolf stared directly into the black maw of the raging seas. Jorgen lost his grib and fell from the mast, disappearing with a scream into the frothing darkness. Then the ship descended and fell into the gully of between the crests and dark masses of waters swallowed the deck, washing away half a dozen sailors into the waves. Rolf did not even have time to recognize them before they were gone.  
He forced himself onwards, climbing to the very top of the mast where he cut a final line of rope and with a whoosh the sail was released from the ship, and flew off into the waves. He climbed down from the mast, walking unsteadily across the slippery deck as the waves assaulted the sides of the vessel. There was no one at the steering wheel; the captain was gone. Rolf looked around the ship in a trance, another wave washed across the prow and dragged another sailor into the abyss. He was too stunned to even scream.  
In another moment Rolf had ripped open the door to the captain's captain and rushed inside. It was a chaos inside, furniture thrown against the walls, a window shattered by some unknown impact, a great red-black stain of ink spilling across the floor from a broken desk. Not only ink, Rolf corrected himself with a sickening realization.  
He lifted away the shattered wood of the desk, revealing Mrs. Hurier. Her skull had caved in where the heavy wooden furniture had struck it. In her arms lay her tiny child, its screaming drowned by the roar of the waves. Rolf grabbed the child and walked back outside onto the deck. The darkness was total, as the rain poured torentially across the ship. He couldn't see anything or anyone in the darkness, with the laterns drowned by the onslaught of the storm. He did not even see the dark mass of water rising above the ship, as the ocean collected all its fury in and swallowed the ship in a seething black mass of water.

# Volume Four

21st of Frostfall, 4E122, midday  
Winterhold  
The docks were lost. Through the night the poorest of Winterholds many fisherfolk had awoken to find their houses flooded. The water had climbed high into the streets, running freely through the lowest quarters of city. A defense had been mounted; the residents and a large contingent of Winterhold guardsmen had quickly errected barricades and dikes, but it had not been long before the the defenders had realized the battle was lost, and most of the people had made their way to higher ground. The fortunate ones had time to grab a handful of belongings from their flooded houses, the unfortunate ones had not even awoken in time to escape their house.  
For every step of the defense, for every time a dike was errected - a makeshift construction of grain sacks, shoveled dirt, and small rocks, the people and the guardsmen rejoiced; now the sea would climb no higher; the city was saved, and every time the water would begin to leak through the defenses, climbing high above any obstacles and flooding carelessly into every nook and cranny of the disbelieving city.  
Svanrig and his parents watched the procession of the waves. Despite the warnings of the jarl, the Snoweye clan had ventured into the streets to watch the spectacle. Not to help, truly, but mostly to watch. Skjorvar had been fascinated with the strength of the storm, regarding it with a mixture of admiration and amusement. "What a storm," he kept exlaiming, smiling mysteriously.  
Svanrig had wished to stay in the house, so high above the lowest quarters of the city, but he hadn't dared oppose either of his parents as they made to 'watch the spectacle.'  
Svanrig watched as the men and women of Winterhold rushed about the barricades, piling sand and gravel as best they could against the waves. People running out of their houses with furniture or prized possessions, trying to get to higher ground. He noticed the jarl's son Eimar, in a guardsmans uniform, barking incomprehensible orders at a contingent of guards while he feebly tried to pile sand unto a dike. The scene was surreal.  
A quarter of Winterhold was under water. The very words sounded bizarre in his mind. Winterhold was a city; cities were above ground. This simple principle had been violated, and his mind still had trouble dealing with the realization. Even now as the ocean climbed ever higher into the streets, he failed to realize the gravity of the situation. They all did. 

21st of Frostfall, 4E122, midday  
College of Winterhold  
The bedrock which bore the College of Winterhold was honeycombed by a maze of tunnels. Some having formed naturally through thousands of years of erosion and others forced open by the Mages' hands, as they expanded their laboratories and storerooms. As the College had grown in size over the years, however, these cavesystems had become unnecessary and fallen into disrepair. It was a rare event now that anyone went further down than The Midden, and that was mostly limited to wayward apprentices.  
On this day however, two mages, a young apprentice and an old master, delved into these deserted tunnels. Belas and Vandus, torches in hand, climbed steadily down through the caves, through tunnels of ice and through tunnels of rock they descended deep into the foundations of Winterhold. They were quick to regret only wearing their College robes for, despite the torches they wielded, they soon began to feel the cold, a chill that struck right through to the bones.  
They were quiet as they descended, each silenced by his own apprehension as they climbed further down. For the first few hours of their journey, Belas was afraid that he had led them on a useless expedition; but soon a different sort of cold began to attack his senses. Flashes in the corner of his eyes, rays of light shifting through the ice. And soon his suspicions were confirmed as a strange tingling prickled his head; the throb of magicka - a powerful spell was being cast nearby.  
Vandus apparently did not feel it, for indeed he was a little bored. Too polite to complain or urge the Master Wizard to turn back, he idly kicked a rock and it went skipping down the icy tunnel. The noise was shatteringly loud in the empty tunnels, echoing a hundredfold through the frosty chambers and myriad crevices. Belas stared daggers at his apprentice, but before he had time berate him, another sound boomed through the halls. A voice.  
"This one hears you! Come along, little ones."  
The voice was somewhere between the slurred speech of a mean drunk and the nasally, mucus-ridden drawl of someone with a bad fever. It was instantly revolting.  
Vandus instictively looked about him, as if expecting to find the source of the voice right behind him, but found nothing. Belas kept his eyes ahead, however, sensing that the voice was echoing from deeper within the icy tunnels. They edged their way slowly through the tunnel, haunted by occasional bouts of guttural speech crawling its way through the ice. During these speeches, Vandus's progress slowed almost to a halt as if his feet were tied up. Only the steady progress of his trusted teacher, the Master Wizard, kept him moving forward.  
Then suddenly they were both blinded by an intense glow, amplified thousandfold by reflections through the crystalline ice.  
Blue-gray and violet lights streamed in a vortex about the centre of a large, cavernous space, seemingly pulled out of thin air around the icy walls and drawn in a flurry into a great white stone nestled in the centre of the chamber. And behind that stone stood one of the most repulsive creatures either man had ever laid eyes on. Large and toadish, corpulent to the point of shapelessness with a face that blended into a neck which blended into a torso. It stood watching the flux of lights with a slavering greed whilst it murmured contentedly in its guttural tongue. And though neither Belas nor Vandus had ever seen a specimen before, both men knew they were looking at one of the horrid spawns of Thras; a Sload.  
"I don't think it has seen us yet--" Vandus began, but was cut off by another bout of raucous, slobbering laughter as the Sload turned towards them.  
"This one acknowledges your presence most joyously," the Sload announced with mock cordiality, as its hand took a break for greedily caressing the gem to beckon them towards it. They didn't move a muscle.  
"Come now," it droned on. "Come and bask in this glorious display. Such pith, such wealth! Come now, surely such collegiates must take interest."  
And without further ado, Belas stepped fearlessly from their hiding spot and faced the sload, with Vandus trailing pitifully behind him.  
"What-- what are those?" Vandus asked, forgetting his fear for a moment as he stared fascinatedly at the eerie display of lights.  
"They are souls," Belas answered him.  
"Good, little one," the Sload drawled mockingly. "It knows a thing or two."  
"But, whose?" Vandus asked, probably knowing the answer but blocking it out of fear.  
"This one thinks it knows," the Sload answered. "The richest Soulsnare since N'Gasta!" it boasted.  
"You conjured up this storm?" Belas asked, unable to hide a tint of admiration in his voice.  
"It was pricy, very pricy," the Sload answered. "But oh the rewards to reap." - its colossal tongue darted across its lips in a smack - "This one shall have many favors for the trading of these souls," it boasted. "A shame their school could not be had as well."  
"Our magic protects us from your vile sorceries!" Vandus said defiantly, though the fear was  
still palpable in his voice.  
The Sload laughed again - a deep guttural sound that sounded more like gurgling.  
"It thought its school was protected by its own magicks? Their tricks and mumblings are nothing to this one," it gloated. "But this one needs must a safe place to perform its ritual."  
Belas was stunned. Winterhold was sinking into the sea, eaten away by this Sload's storm, but his College was spared by the very same sorcery.  
"Master," Vandus began - he was trying to whisper, but his fear excited his voice: "Those are people killed by the storm!"  
"I know," Belas hissed, trying to think.  
"We have to stop it, now!" Vandus yelped and conjured up a fireball in his hands.  
Belas did not have to time to stop him before he launched it. The fireball flew towards the Sload, slowed, sputtered and was violently deflected. It shot backwards with redoubled ferocity, narrowly missing Vandus as he ducked out of the way, and slammed into the ice wall behind them. The fiery rage instantly melted a large chunk of ice and sent the remainder of the ceiling crashing down, burrying the tunnel in a mountain of ice and brittle rock.  
"You idiot!" Belas berated his apprentice. "Didn't you sense it? There's a ward. A very powerful one."  
The Sload watched them calmly, looking almost bemused as though simply curious to see what they would do next.  
Vandus was still too shocked to feel ashamed of his mistake. He rose slowly, looking toward the collapsed tunnel. It took another moment for him to realize the gravity of his mistake and then he turned to his teacher with a desperate despair.  
Belas sat down on a rock with a heavy sigh. At least the Sload seemed too preocupied with maintaining its spell to bother with them, maintaining the storm and such a powerful ward must've been draining - or perhaps it truly did not consider them a threat.  
He looked at the creature wtih disgust and nascent hatred. Huddled smugly behind its ward, gloating as the souls of the dead fed its hunger. He contemplated how to stop it; Belas was no mere hedgewizard, in truth he doubted few at the College were more accomplished than himself, baring the Archmage, of course. But for all of that he knew he was outmatched.  
"How do we break the ward?" Vandus intoned, having now regained his composure.  
"We don't," was all Belas could answer. 

# Volume Five

21st of Frostfall, 4E122, evening  
Pale Mountains  
The small train of refugees climbed the hill slowly but steadily. The wind shrieked wildly against them as they ascended the mountain and flecks of snow caught in the men's beards as they made their way through the storm. Thorbjorn and Ingrid advanced slowly, dragging their wagon through the snow that piled high around their feet. Despite the cold they were both sweating heavily with the excertion.  
The statue of the goddess Azura, raised by dark elf refugees who came to Skyrim in anticipation of the cataclysmic Red Year, loomed over them. It was the greatest structure they had ever seen, towering higher than even the College of Winterhold. Despite its impressiveness, however, none of the refugees were looking at the statue. Despite the flurry of snow that surrounded them they could still see Winterhold in the distance; the ancient city on the edge of the sea covered in a black ringing of clouds as the storm assaulted it. Waves black as tar climbed the walls, assaulting the city through its streets, through the alleys, and through every household and holdfast. A great roar of thunder boomed in the distance, like a battlehorn signalling the final push, and the sea, ravenous and raging climbed into the city and pulled it apart.  
They all stood mesmerized, horrified and astounded as ancient Winterhold slumped, quivered, and with a grand final shudder slid into the sea.  
Stone battlements, houses, forgeworks and stables, temples and taverns, mansions and slumtown hovels cascaded in a flurry of stone and timber into the ravenous sea. The waves, fed with the momentum of the falling city, climbed ever higher as though hungry for more, eating away at the very bedrock of the city. Humongous sheets of ice and stone were swallowed by the sea.  
The snow beat at them mercilessly, but no one could move a muscle. They were frozen in terror. 

21st of Frostfall, 4E122, evening  
The city fell, rushing in a flurry of stone, earth, and water into the dark mass of the sea. In those final moments, in the fleeting time between life and death a million thoughts went through the minds of Winterhold's citizens. Some were only numbed by surprise; empty, unable to understand what was happening.  
For a select handful, however, a few articulated thoughts braved the recesses of their mind as the water filled their lungs and the light disappeared under a canopy of debris and chaos. A soul that had gone by the name of Svanrig managed to form a single sentence before it was torn from its frame. A conciousness, barely coherent, hurtly thorugh space in a blur of movement. Through water, air, ice, and stone it went; an instant passing like an eternity. And then it ended; an abrupt halt in a fine crystal. A perfectly aligned, violet crystal. And in that moment the soul named Svanrig managed a final thought; "I should have said something" and was dragged into Oblivion. 

21st of Frostfall, 4E122, evening  
College of Winterhold  
"I've counted," Vandus said meekly. It was a moment before Belas even noticed he had spoken, lost in thought as he had been.  
"Counted what?" he asked.  
"The souls. That's another hundred in the past hour."  
Belas was about to scold him for interrupting his thoughts, but he knew why the boy was saying these things. He only wished for it to end, and Belas wished he knew how.  
The Sload still sat contentedly behind its ward, perhaps counting the souls as well with its bulging, greedy eyes.  
Belas was thinking hard; methodically going over every spell he knew or had heard of. Blasting the ward with Destruction magic was out of the question, he would tire long before the Sload. Conjuration was not an option either, any daedra mighty enough to combat the Sload would be too much for him to control.  
Vandus was still trying to encourage him; "Come on, Master. You're the greatest wizard the College has known!" he lied, though Belas appreciated the compliment.  
He was about to correct him that Archmage Aren was the greater sorcerer, but just then a memory slipped into his mind as though the words were themselves a spell. A young apprentice, a fresh faced refugee from Solstheim intent on making a name for himself in this new city, Belas Othren had snuck into the Archmage's quarters on several occasions, convinced that the would find copious tomes of esoteric spells. Instead he had mostly found disappointment along with the bitter realization that it took more than a handful of spelltomes to become Archmage.  
But in his third break-in he had found one tome, tucked away at the very bottom of an ancient chest burried underneath a mountain of worthless, powdery scrolls. The tome only contained a single spell; a spell it had taken him weeks to decipher.  
When he did decipher it, he had vowed never to use it. And had quietly returned it to its hiding spot when next he had had the chance.  
"There is one spell I know," Belas said in a barely audible whisper.  
Vandus heard him any way.  
"I knew it!" he exclaimed triumphantly. "What will you do?"  
"It's a binding spell. I can't kill this monstrosity, but I can trap it. A permanent stasis that will contain it. The Storm should die down, the soul snare should stop."  
"Then do it," Vandus urged. "Trap it now, and we can come back to kill it later."  
"A permanent binding requires a permanent source of energy," Belas said. He suddenly began to feel the chill of the cave, his whole body stiffening with cold.  
Vandus didn't seem to understand, so Belas was forced to elaborate: "The binding requires a soul. A permanent barrier maintained by a permanently bound soul."  
Vandus looked mortified: "No sir! You can't! We will fight; we have to try to fight it together!  
"Even if we could kill it, the College dies with it. Didn't you hear? Only the Sload's ward is keeping the College from being consumed by the storm same as the city."  
Vandus bit his lip, but took only a moment to make up his mind: "It's worth it. All those people," he gestured meekly to the souls which were still being drawn mercilessly into the soul gem, "all those people dead. We can't put the College above a whole city. Hundreds of people..."  
"No. I won't risk it," Belas said sternly. He had already made up his mind. "We use the spell," he said as he rose and began to channel the incantation that he had never forgotten.  
"But no, Master! There must be another way, your soul--"  
Tears welled in his eyes as Belas looked at his beloved apprentice and took aim for the spell. Vandus stared numbly at his teacher, struck dumb by the betrayal. So pitiful was the lightless look in his eyes that it was all Belas could do not to close his eyes as he cast the spell. 

22nd of Frostfall, 4E122, midnight  
College of Winterhold  
Belas Othren sat on a thin ledge of ice overlooking the Sea of Ghosts. He had slipped through a crack in the cavewall, barely cramming himself through the crevice. But now there was nowhere else to go as he faced a sheer drop down towards the raging sea.  
His limbs had gone numb, All he could hear now was the howling of the wind as his eyes watered with cold. His tears had either dried or frozen now and he had already stopped trying to convince himself that he had done the right thing. The spell had cost more than the life of his apprentice, and he felt tired, so very tired. He knew now in his heart that the Archmage must have once used the spell himself; he knew because of the manner in which it had been hidden; no locks, no magical seals or otherwordly designs. It had only been tucked away in the dark recesses of his rooms, as though he had been hiding it from himself. But it didn't matter now, few things seemed to matter now as his mind slowly went numb.  
The sea stretched itself endlessly before him. Ravenous and foaming; waves tall as castles flinging glaciers tall as houses against eachothers in a random rage. Torrents of rain pelted the ocean and the ledge where he sat, but he was too cold to feel the soaking of his clothes. He stared out into the dark waves. Somewhere far out beyond those raging currents lay the island of Solstheim and beyond that was Morrowind, his childhood home, smothered by ash and fire. Belas thought back towards that home, his real home, and he missed it even now. Perhaps he should have died there for it was so very cold to sit here upon this ledge above the sea as the wind cut into him. But he had not returned to Morrowind and now he never would.  
He took off his gloves and laid his hands upon the broken cave wall. At least he would not lose this home, he thought to himself. He curled up against the stone and listened to the wind howling through him.

# Volume Six

23rd of Frostfall, 4E122  
Winterhold  
Thin, precious rays of light snuck through the clouds. They fumbled their way to the ground where they found a drowned sailor, coughing himself back to life.  
Rolf was sputtering and coughing, spitting out sea water. When he'd finally emptied his lungs he looked around; he was lying alone on the coarse dark pepples of a beach, the cold seawater nibbling at his feet. And all around him, far as he could see and towering high against the heavens were piled the ruins of a city. Splintered planks, shattered stone, flecks of mortar, and torn strips of banners, clothes, and sails whose colour was already greying out in the salty wind. It was only a moment until he spotted the first corpse. It was no longer possible to tell if it had been man or mer; its chalky skin, bleached by sun and sea water, offered no protection against the incessant pecking of a handful of seagulls.  
He was distracted from this grisly display by another sensation, however, for a cold dread; a chill so much worse than anything the sea had struck him with gripped him and he looked around in a panic, searching for that tiny lump of rags he had clutched through the storm - and his heart skipped a beat as, with a wave of gratitude, he saw the tiny child Hurier, soaked in its rags but with cheeks that were verdantly red against the cold, lying safely between the rocks but a hand's breadth from him. 

23rd of Frostfall, 4E122  
Winterhold  
Among the battered wood and shattered stone, among the few living and the many dead, the sun shone too upon the remains of Winterhold.  
It's people, those who remained, shuffled through the ruins dejectedly. Looking for survivors, looking for their belongings, or perhaps simply looking through the debris for no reason at all. The survivors made their way through the ruins. Many had already begun heading for the city gates, walking without destination or goal, but with singular purpose; to leave a dead city.  
On the square before the jarl's halls the survivors had assembled the dead. No one had ordered or planned this, but as the morning wore on into the afternoon and the storm slackened its assault people had congregated towards the jarl's longhouse. Some bringing their dead held in their arms, some shuffling along alone.  
Naturally then, Rolf himself congregated towards this assembly. The baby Hurier was fast asleep, as he had been all day. Of that Rolf was thankful as he stood among the bereaved in front of the jarl's longhouse. At this time it had been made clear that jarl Valdimar himself had survived the storm but had not emerged from his longhouse. Nevertheless the people had assembled outside the hall as they mourned the dead.  
Rolf joined the circle of mourners quietly. He had not been in the city as the sea claimed it, but all could see that he too had been broken by the storm.  
A long time went by without words, but finally a man broke the silence. An aging nord with silvergrey hair and a great beard.  
"I'd bet you my life and fortune it's the wizards did this. T'was no natural storm, any man or woman could see that plain as day."  
There was no particular sense of agreement, but no one objected either.  
"They conjured a storm in their freak experiments," the man continued, working himself into a frenzy. "This isn't natural."  
At this Rolf could not surpress a scoff. He had meant for it to be quiet, but the man heard him anyway.  
"You think this is natural? You think this isn't the wizards' doing?" the man challenged him. His face was red with rage.  
"You spend your whole life around sailors, you learn that people will blame storms on just about anything," Rolf replied. "Kyne is displeased, The Serpent is stirring up the seas, there's a woman onboard, the Ancestors are displeased with us for letting too many Elves into Skyrim, all sorts of nonsense."  
"Well why do you think the storm came about then," a woman of the crowd asked sceptically.  
"Haven't a clue," Rolf answered earnestly.  
"Aha!" the man exclaimed victoriously. "You don't know either, so it might be the wizards, eh?"  
"I said I haven't a clue, and I don't think you should go pointing fingers if you're clueless," Rolf answered and walked off, quite content to drop the conversation. 

23rd of Frostfall, 4E122, evening  
Winterhold  
The woodwork moaned as the door slammed shut. Rolf sighed loudly. He reckoned in his head, and worked out that he had now visited twentythree households. And at every doorstep he had been met with, at best, silence or a door slammed in his face. He looked down at the babe cuddled in his arms. The chubby, vigorous red cheeks and the large, flat nose.  
"It's looks like it will be hard to find a home for you," he whispered to babe jollily, trying to ward off his own desperation.  
Half a city gone and the few families left only scoffed at this suggestion. Apparently there was not a man or woman in Winterhold ready to take in a child. Rolf wasn't angry or disappointed truly, he never expected anyone to accept the child. But he was exhausted. He had reached the final house at the end of the street and he looked out into the cold, blank sky. Winterhold had fallen. A broken city, half swallowed by the sea and half swallowed by despair. He felt hopeless.  
It was hard to see in the darkness. The lanterns were unlit, and the only light was the strange glow that had always emnated from the magicka wells of the College of Winterhold. It took only a moment for Rolf to decide, and he began the climb towards the bluff where the College lay.  
The sloping hill that led towards the College - or rather the area where the sloping hill towards the College had once been - was stripped down to a filigree bridge of stonework, miraculously still intact. Rolf tested the stone walkway gingerly, placing one foot carefully on the stonework and shifting his weight onto it gradually. It held.  
He placed another foot onto the walkway. It held. He began to walk across it.  
He reached the gates of the College without incident and the iron grating swung open, seemingly of its own accord. Rolf had met wizards before, and was not frightened by their tricks so he continued steadfastly through the gates. No one accosted him; the courtyard was empty.  
He pushed through a great pair of oaken doors into what appeared to be the main hall of the College. Immediately a pleasant hum filled his ears and a pleasant warmth enveloped him. It was only then that he realized how tense he had been; how tense he had been ever since the ocean had eaten him up and he been pulled off the ship. Now, finally, he relaxed. He sank to his knees on the stones of the Hall.  
It was only a moment before a couple of mages - apprentices by the look of their rugged robes - had found him, and escorted him to a fireplace. Rolf thanked them meekly, and sat there for a while staring into the flames.  
It could have been an hour or a minute - he had lost track - but soon another mage appeared, a dark elf who introcued himself as Savos.  
"Welcome to our College," the elf greeted him warmly. "To what do we owe this honor."  
Rolf almost laughed at that; at how disconnected this wizard seemed. Did he not realize a city had just vanished? "The child," Rolf answered, as he showed him the babe in his arms. "He needs a home."  
"Are you not able to provide for him?" the elf asked - Rolf could not tell whether the tone was of annoyance or sympathy. And he was too tired to care.  
"No. A sailor," he answered briefly. "He needs a steady home. A sturdy home."  
At this the elf smiled, and Rolf no longer doubted whether it was annoyance or sympathy.  
"What is the child's name?"  
"He doesn't have one," Rolf looked pitiyingly at the tiny child, lying dry and snug in his arms, having seemingly already forgotten all about the storm and its lost parents. "His parents didn't get around to it before--"  
"They died in the Collapse?" the elf asked quietly.  
"Lost at sea," Rolf answered. "We set out from Solitude on the eleventh of Frostfall." --- "What's today?" he asked, realizing he had no clue.  
"The twentythird," the elf replied without condescension.  
Rolf shook his head. "Twelve days at sea. In a storm like this," he muttered, mostly to himself.  
"Well we should name the child," the elf said. "They say it's bad luck to have an unnamed child by the hearth."  
Rolf shrugged: "I'm not sure I believe in all that, but he should have a name, aye. But I haven't a clue what to call him, frankly I never expected to have to name a child."  
"What about Tolf? Old Nordic for twelve? He survived all those days on the sea, the tough little one," the elf looked at the child affectionately and, almost, with a parental pride.  
"Sounds too much like Rolf, and he's not mine to be named after."  
"Well, what's the Atmoran word for days? As in twelve days."  
Rolf bit his lip as he thought for a moment. The sailors he'd been around all his life were superstitious folk and were given to old atmorans prayers for safe travels, so he'd picked up a few bits here and there.  
"'Dir', I think," he finally decided.  
"Tolfdir then, grand name," the elf said with enthusiasm.  
"Tolfdir," Rolf repeated as the name rapidly grew on him. "I like that."


End file.
